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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056671">The Siren Song of Courage</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarWaltz/pseuds/SolarWaltz'>SolarWaltz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who, Doctor Who &amp; Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who: Virgin New Adventures - Various Authors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>#canon typical asshole behavior, Beach Episode!, Doctor Who: Academy Era, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Koschei's an ass but what else is new, M/M, Mild Angst, They have a bitchy argument in a hallway, Thoschei, brief discussion of prydon and drome being at war, but thats a b-plot to my beach romance adventure, dromedian!koschei, fanon typical tender behavior, is it neck kink or is it choking? hard to say., mild violence, neck kink, prydonian!Theta, theyre not actually on a beach i just wanted to beach-bait y'all, which just means they make out near the ocean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:07:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056671</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarWaltz/pseuds/SolarWaltz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallifrey looms on the brink of war, Drome and Prydon prepare to savage each other, and yet- a childhood tradition of hospitality exists within two houses from the bickering chapters. On their final meeting under friendly circumstances, the sons of Lungbarrow and Oakdown reminisce about what could have been, and the title of 'coward.'</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Doctor | Theta Sigma &amp; The Master | Koschei (Doctor Who: Academy Era), The Doctor | Theta Sigma/The Master | Koschei (Doctor Who: Academy Era)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was strange to return to a place of nostalgia during times of crises. Reunion lunches were always tinged with the thing- the two high families of Lungbarrow and Oakdown converging on along the limestone coasts of the ruby ocean, to witness an air ripe with the sound of their bickering children, where the rest of Gallifrey filled itself with warmongering cries.</p><p><br/>
They had spent their childhoods here, gazing across cliffs to the world beyond, to the wine-dark waters that promised an eventual end to their divided world. The danger of their childhoods present only in the act of daring each other to creep closer to the cliff's edge and stare down into the waters below, toes curled upon the edge of the observed world. Danger always resolved, caught by sharp-eyed Ulysses, with dismissal for their longing for the horizon, ignoring their complaints as he grabs them both by the collar and drags them back to civilized discussion before their puffed-out chests and insatiable curiosity could lead them blindly to their doom.</p><p><br/>
Even in the early years of their cliff top wanderings, they had known the world the lord of Lungbarrow drew them back to was far more complicated than their simple reunion. He was returning them to the reality of Arcadia, to their chapters’ conflict, the isolation and slander their academy peers insisted they swap between each other as they’d once swapped stories of monsters under beds and loose teeth. And though Koschei would claim not to remember who had thrown the first harsh word, who had first forgot their families' long standing companionship, he had drawn the first tear from his friend, unprompted by Theta’s own actions. It had been simpler to denounce, to claim him a savage from a rebellious chapter, and a freakish one at that, 
face his dromedian peers who already sought to alienate him due to their friendship, and whose favour could elevate his social standing.

Now they lie together once more- engaging in their parents' games of forgetting slights against each other’s honour, ignoring arguments that led to raw throats and bloodied fists and conspiring acts of terror against old friends. Instead they fall to those simple, flittering conversations appropriate for boys their age from friendly houses. They bicker over philosophy- and Koschei finds Theta infuriatingly stubborn: His notions of morality and ethical coddling restricting the causation of actual, meaningful change with little room for exception. His insistence that it was better to die in poverty than to live a forced life of luxury- and Koschei can tell, with that gleam in his eyes, he is arguing a point he does not believe, if only Koschei pressed harder, asked the right question- he would concede, and they could stop their bickering.</p><p><br/>
Both are patient in their end goal. Knowing their parents will stray from their supper, to slip rumours of coming warfare and share fears they ought not, under pretense of evening strolls and an admiration of natural beauty, the sons of Lungbarrow and Oakdown wait on a change in conversation, leaping to more interesting topics with reckless abandon as their elders finally move out of earshot.</p><p><br/>
Theta leans in closer, almost touching now, and in a conspiratorial whisper, dramatic and low, asks, as Koschei had come to expect- "And how is life in Drome- do you really have to justify ever decision you make?"<br/>
"Do prydonians still insist on taking group baths?" Koschei's voice equally as intent, before lifting and making way to laughter between them.<br/>
It does not last as it should, rather, is killed by Koschei's sudden insistence, drowning out whatever wit Theta may have hidden in response with a sudden careless admission. “I missed you this year.” He states, as though the same could not be said for each sordid year between them, “I missed us.”</p><p><br/>
And Theta wants to deflect, Koschei knows him well enough to see that- the absent flick of his eyes, his tightening shoulders. He had shown his cards too soon. Ruined whatever facade the two had hidden behind and bought a sort of realism to their conversation. And with it- the dawning understanding that this would be the last of their picnics- the last of their shared affections- they were almost grown now, and such things were not to be tolerated within adult circles. The taunting of their peers, their chapters had escalated recently and Gallifrey sat on the edge of war, faceless politicians throughout the chapters lie in wait for a deceleration of war, the fraying tensions between them no longer thick enough to last the winter of the coming year.</p><p><br/>
“Was there ever an ‘us’?” Theta murmurs, barely audible, before his courage builds, and a solemn state falls over him, and, without waiting for a response, he continues, answering himself.<br/>
“There couldn't have been, not with the way things were." There is a silent implication of cast guilt, as though Koschei's first mindless insult had left a wound on Theta that had not healed, that could not have been ignored and set to the side as neatly as their meetings required.
"Maybe there could have been- if we hadn't been cowards.” There is little to distinguish this Theta from the one in Koschei's memory, so wrapped up in small talk, half present and half lost in thought. Still the same child, wandering off a cliff's edge, curiosity clouding the threat of the thing he sought.</p><p><br/>
“I prefer not to think of myself as a coward.” Koschei reminds him, hurt that Theta should stretch the net of his slander to fall upon them both, bruised by Theta’s dismissal of whatever union he had always considered to exist between them, the implication that it had been his fault their friendship had been put on hold and now only existed here, and not the product of their environment.<br/>
Koschei files the words away, marks a week on his mental calendar for sulking and commits the words to his memory. He burns the look on Theta's face in his mind, so that he may use it against him, later, and when the action is necessary, though hardly deserved, so that their parting may seem kinder in comparison.</p><p><br/>
"Then prove you're not. That you haven't been."</p><p><br/>
Understanding plagues Koschei. Perhaps his brethren had been right, perhaps it was best to not listen to the sharp tongues of careless Prydonians. Best to stay away and not give in to Theta's chiding- best not to be edged on and lash out on emotion and spite- and the hatred of knowing the end was nigh- he should not let those thoughts bind within him, to this moment- to Theta- to the coasts. He should ignore his bittersweet tone, and press on through life a miserable man forever wondering what might have been- for fear of rejection, or worse, of acceptance- acceptance cut short and harsh by the passage of time, of geography and politicians. He should laugh the afternoon off, chalk their history to some ill-fated joke, or leave. Should not be lulled to the siren song cadence that draws him to an early grave amongst sea salt and limestone.</p><p><br/>
But he stays.<br/>
No, a foolish man would stay. Koschei moves closer, until he can feel Theta’s lips tremble against his as he closes the space between them, turning it tender. And there is not a word he can think of that describes how moronic the action is- though it's certainly not cowardly.
Theta shuffles against him, pressing forward, following the instruction of Koschei’s desperate hands that slip down to his hips, holding him in place. Theta gasps, Koschei’s teeth sinking into his lip- and the sound is sweeter than any drip of honey, and sharper than any mortal weapon.<br/>
And they are moving together now, both desperate to move downwards yet neither willing to break their kiss for fear some external force will prevent them from recovering it. And then Theta does- is-is trying to-and Koschei is fighting him for this, half begging in a silent testimony of clawed fingers and savage biting. <em>Stay,</em> Koschei confesses to him, <em>stay here on the cliffs with me- and we shall argue, and bicker, and creep to the edge- just stay. For now, and forever.</em></p><p><br/>
Theta's hand is on his chest, shoving him back, and that is wrong- but Koschei cannot find it within himself to force Theta to stay, to trap the wild beast between them and hold it as his own- not with Theta’s stubborn insistence. And so, they separate, connected only by Theta’s flat palm against Koschei’s quick-beating heart. His free hand points to a nearby ridge, fingers gesturing to their parents' return, too concerned with themselves to notice their sons’ brief delight in taboo intimacy- yet drawing ever closer, certain to catch their lingering hands, the dumb grin Koschei cannot tell himself to drop.</p><p><br/>
Theta gives Koschei a slight unfortunate smile, like the entire affair had been an unfortunate eventuality, an unpleasant meeting reaching its awaited climax, and with that, Koschei loses him. Theta moves to his feet, calls out to his father and moves to meet them- any excuse to avoid Koschei's eyes, the questioning sure to follow their breif moment of intimacy- and brings their final day of peace to an early close.<br/>
<em>Coward.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Threshold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>War continues to rage over Gallifrey. And beneath it, the trembling form of love and life.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arcadia is barren now, as though there had never been life among her streets and feet upon her cobble, her people long since evacuated to country houses and shelters. No politicians flock to the panopticon, no merchants cry their wares like abrassive songbirds, even the grating sounds of Lowtown have been hushed, as though the absence of life and love might convince the warring chapters to overlook the once proud cultural hub.</p><p>The world is quiet now. There is no life within the academy, no soft laughter from hallways or excited gossip amongst dorms, no prank plotting amongst friends- just the bitter edge of tension, etched beneath the skin of each student. The tired eyes that watch for aggression, the exhaustion of emotion.</p><p>There are few interruptions to the treacle thick passage of time- knocks on classroom doors as house messengers pass messages of death, each a grim specter that haunts the corridors, bringing rise to wails no professor has learnt to drown out, and bleary eyed students, still mourning fallen family forced to rejoin lectures. And there is fighting.</p><p>It rises between brethren- the academy's attempts to seperate Prydon and Drome having little effect on the warring masses of students, caged together and frightened. Their schedules had been shifted- a plea against the stressed masses, neither should come in contact, neither should hear each other's war cries and laments- should they stick to their new routines.</p><p>They hadn't of course.</p><p>And there is blood within the academy as there had been within the chapters. The quick crack of broken bone and bloodied fist, a sudden dart from either side, turning to mass of twisting limbs and flesh bared.</p><p>Yet Koschei cannot take it upon himself to delight in needless chaos. His mind strays from warfare and clawing fingers, falling to distant lunches, to cliffs, and to a single moment of stolen intimacy. It had been months now, and though the event goes unremarked by Theta, Koschei cannot help but dwell- on soft lips against his, and a body entwined- of the suns that stood guard as Helios once guarded Kore. He awakens each morning with the dawn, and with the sting of rejection still fresh in his mind, even the soft embrace of Theta in his sleep is one that flees his touch as he clutches in desperation.</p><p>Koschei has become a man obsessed.</p><p>And Theta does not notice, does not match his lovelorn gaze when their eyes lock across campus, does not match Koschei's foolhardy grin and slight chuckle- cannot see the light in Koschei's eyes as their people clash, and foul words are thrown- does not engage in Koschei's game of teasing and tempting. Cowardly Theta, happy to pretend their world had not changed for fear of truth offending. Koschei hadn't expected him now though- their altered timetables would have Theta midway through class as Koschei entered a study period, not sitting in a tight curled ball on the floor of the eastern wing. Koschei had learnt to seek opportunity- if Theta would not acknowledge him as he would like, Koschei would acknowledge him as a dromodian should.</p><p>It's hardly a kick, a swift blow to Theta's side as Koschei passes, and a breif mock-bow of greeting, a "Good morning Theta," sickly sweet and demoralising before he's halfway down the corridor, assured in his acts by the slight chuckling of his dromodian peers.</p><p>Theta is on his feet in seconds, meeting Koschei's stride before anyone of them could turn to stop him- no more the hapless victim, no more cowardly bystander to his own predation, his fist striking Koschei just below the jaw and staggering him, just for a moment. Long enough for Theta to shove him back against the nearest wall, pressing a quick arm against Koschei's bare throat.</p><p><em> He's crying</em>, Koschei notices with a start, now pressed close enough to Theta's cheek to see his face blotched and shining in the soft light of the corridor, and with his free hand he gestures his companions to leave him to fend for himself, a slight chill creeping his shoulders.</p><p>"Theta- what happened?" Koschei’s voice is quiet, a slight murmur intended only for the wounded Prydonian, and softer than it had been for a great many years.</p><p>Theta snarls, digging his arm in further, and <em>oh. This is not the right time, </em>Koschei reminds himself, <em>put the thought out of your head, don’t focus on how nice it feels to have Theta touch him there, of all places- Theta needs help, not an overexcited rival desperate to feel his throat beneath their hands, to choke as Theta choked them- </em></p><p>"Thete- who died?" Now Koschei speaks, forcing the words beyond the pain in his throat and the blood rushing past his ears- forcing Theta to the words, holding him accountable for an answer in volume, in the soft expectance of his tone.</p><p>The pressure on his throat eases, and Koschei can see Theta’s anger fade, eyes clouding over once more, words half hidden in a soft sob- “My dad-“</p><p>"I'm sorry." It’s nothing, clearly the wrong words to use, yet Koschei cannot quite manage to think of anything better- that, he blames on the crushing of his windpipe, his inability to get air to mind.</p><p>"For what? For choosing the wrong day? Or for all of it?" Theta sneers, pressing himself further into Koschei’s space, a force of nature steeped in anger and loss. "Poor Koschei, can hardly start a fight without running the risk of getting smacked, can't talk shit and wipe away years of friendship for clout without breaking a few hearts. You can't pretend you give half a fuck now just because you think it meant shit that I kissed you."</p><p>From somewhere down the hall, one of Koschei’s friends gasps, the sound forgotten by the warring couple, by Koschei, shocked at the admission of lost love.</p><p>"And the worst of it is-" Theta hisses, eyes ringed brilliant red and face flustered, "You weren't worth the risk."</p><p>It is unintentional, the deep vibration of his throat that forms a soundless snarl as Theta's forearm presses harder against his windpipe, and Koschei cannot swallow, cannot breathe, but he can do that, can curl his lip and spit and snarl like a caged beast. Theta's chest is heaving, his breath angry and bitter across Koschei's face like an uncaring desert wind, and that is enough for them both.</p><p>Theta pounces- pressure on Koschei's throat lessening, just for a second, before nashing teeth lunge and once more he takes the air from Koschei's throat in a confession of something so much more complicated than hatred, and so much more vile than love. He is hardly gentle, the curling fingers that replace blunt forearm claw, hard enough to leave a mark, and Koschei is aware, just slightly, of the presence of onlookers- his dromedian peers, sure to mock him later, to call them battle wounds, and him a traitor for the way he moans into Theta’s kiss.</p><p>How pathetic it is, that he should have craved<em> this</em>, that it should ever have been kept from him. The harsh tongues and hand around his throat, the red-faced shame and anger- so purely Theta, and now so purely his. Koschei, not to be caught slack-lipped takes to Theta with as much force as he had been given, hungry and desperate, determined this time- Theta would regret abandoning him, leaving him to the distant tides and his own addled mind.</p><p>Perhaps he already does. Each rough movement is accompanied by a broken sob, a gasp for air in lungs that cannot be filled, each tense muscle well lubricated in a shining gloss of tear- and Koschei cannot tell if he should thread a hand through Theta's hair and pull in vicous hope of retaliation, or wrap a tender arm and soothe, let Theta fall into him soft, and welcome. Perhaps Theta needs him now, not as a dromedian, not even as a brutal, desperate thing of teeth and flesh, but as a friend.</p><p>Theta pulls back from him, not as he had before, not as Koschei had dreamed him to- a quick shove of mocking rejection- but with fingers spread across his chest and tear slicked eyes wide and pleading, before Theta’s head is buried beneath his chin, arms thrown around him in desperation for comfort, he does not flinch or back down as Koschei embraces him, simply moves his face further into the soft silk of Koschei’s robes to hide himself from the world beyond. They are close enough now for Koschei to feel the soft tear tracks Theta leaves in his shirt, to feel him move as he sobs. Koschei does not think they could ever be close enough to satisfy him.</p><p>Ulysses is dead.</p><p>How different the world, now there are no hands to snatch their collars, no careful eyes to notice their divergence from old walking tracks and snatch from cliffs and curiosity. At once there can be no retreat from the limestone, no escape but to stumble and fall to the rocks and sea-spray below.</p><p>
  <em>How exciting it is. To fall and know the soft embrace of the ocean awaits. How sweet it will be, to drown amongst familiar tides.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Guess who's back writing thoschei hurt comfort, it's cha'boi, Solar. If you liked what you read, consider checking out my dw tumblr @ significantly-other, and let me know if you want more from me!</p><p>Also shout out to the Find Your Gods podcast for inspiring the chapter title and the reference to Kore, that podcast man.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is actually a super old fic I found while getting the files off my old computer saved under the title "Beach Boys". It's not consistent with my actual thoughts about academy era lore, and I don't remember why I decided to write it, or why it was named after a 1960's boy band-but who am I to consider which dark god compelled me to produce my craft? It doesn't really matter, point is, I remember enjoying writing it, so now I'm forcing it on y'all.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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